


all the things that i hide (when i'm feeling you)

by philomelas (synchronicities)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (tyra voice) but make it angsty, Dubious Consent, F/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 05, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 21:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17926367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronicities/pseuds/philomelas
Summary: “Please,” Clarke sobs, refusing to look at him. “Please, Bellamy. Just – just this.”Clarke accidentally drinks some drugged wine during negotiations on the new planet. Bellamy wants to help.





	all the things that i hide (when i'm feeling you)

**Author's Note:**

> "hey, you know that sex pollen trope? let's do that, but angsty" -- no one ever
> 
> this is tagged as dubcon because ~sexual stimulants~ but we all know sis is super in love with him. title [ from ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kyB61XiggvM) thirst kween fka twigs

It’s an accident. One moment there’s a tray of wine goblets in front of their faces and they all take a swig in the name of diplomacy, but it’s only Clarke whose eyes glaze over, whose face flushes, and whose hand drops the glass. The ambassador seated next to her pales considerably and yanks the cup out of her hand, but it’s too late.

“What’s happening?” Bellamy demands, already out of his seat and rounding the table. The ambassador is yelling at the server, who is haplessly telling him that the goblet must have been put in there by accident. He’s got the ambassador by his collar before he knows it. “What did you do to her?”

“Bellamy,” Echo says from the seat beside his. She’s glaring daggers in their general direction. “Calm down.”

“I–” Clarke whimpers and Bellamy’s beside himself, drops the ambassador to kneel beside her.

“Clarke–” He tries to put a hand on her knee to try and get her to calm down, but she flinches like he’s burned her, and he withdraws his hand in shame.

“Don’t touch me,” she whispers, turning away from him. Her face is red, and she’s trying not to squirm in her seat. “Please don’t.”

The ambassador seems to have regained his bearings and clears his throat, and Bellamy is suddenly hyperaware of the rest of the representatives staring at him. Raven’s mouth is open and Echo looks beside herself; he shoots her a warning look before sneaking a glance back at Clarke and straightening up.

“It seems Miss Griffin has… ingested something she wasn’t supposed to,” the ambassador says.

“You got that right,” Raven mutters.

“What was it?” Bellamy asks sharply.

“Wine with, how do I say this – sexual stimulants,” the ambassador coughs. “We do keep some on hand for fertility festivals, but it was not, er, on the menu for today’s meeting. She must have been served it by mistake. I assure you we would never intentionally do anything to, uh, _compromise_ this discussion.”

Bellamy’s eyes drag back to Clarke despite his better intentions. Her face is still turned away, but her neck is still flushed and she’s moving her hips slowly, her hands tightly crossed over her chest, which is slowly rising and falling with heavy breaths. The realization of what she’s going through washes over him, and he shamefully turns away. “I hope that’s true or I’ll have your head,” he says darkly, towering over the ambassador. “How does it…pass?”

The ambassador shrinks. “It will take, er, approximately 24 hours if she isn’t, uh, satisfied,” he says in one breath. Bellamy’s expression must grow more thunderous, because he squeaks. “Physical stimulation of the non-sexual kind will…exacerbate the situation. She’ll be quarantined, of course, in our finest suite, and given access to our best food and drink until the fever passes.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says breathily.

“Don’t apologize,” Bellamy snaps. Part of him itches to reach out, comfort her with a hand on her shoulder or tuck a strand of hair behind her ear like _before_ , but he clenches his fist knowing that it’ll only make it worse. 

Clarke is escorted off to god-knows-where by a team of medics. The rest of the meeting passes in a brief haze, everyone anxious to move past the awkward mishap, and the ambassador perhaps more lenient than he would normally be given the situation, but Bellamy can’t stop thinking about _Clarke_. It doesn’t help that the ambassador takes him aside after it finishes. “I truly am sorry about Miss Griffin, Mr. Blake.”

Echo, it seems, picks up on it. “If you’re going to ask me about Wanheda, save it,” she says shortly when they’re back in their quarters. Her arms are crossed and she’s frowning at him. “I saw you in that meeting room. I know how you are, Bellamy.”

He sighs, buries his face in his hands. “Echo–”

“Do what you want,” she snaps, brushing past him and out the door. “We’re done.”

And perhaps it says something about the state of their relationship that he doesn’t try and follow her, doesn’t try to win her back with sweet words and promises of devotion, when they’ve been ringing false ever since –

Ever since he’d learned Clarke was alive.

Clarke, who’d hurt him as badly as he’d hurt her back on Earth.

Clarke, who’d been withdrawing from them following their landing on the new planet.

Clarke, who’d called him every day for six years.

Clarke, who’s in pain _now_.

It only takes him three hours before he breaks.

The suite Clarke is being held in is on the opposite side of the compound, and before he knows it he’s right outside it, one hand above the button that opens the sliding door. His palm hovers above it; he thinks of Echo’s anger, Raven’s disapproval, Madi’s gentle revelation.

 _Clarke_.

The door opens near-soundlessly, and he takes in the sight before him. Clarke is lying on her stomach on the large bed, her pants and shoes in a haphazard heap on the floor, one hand between tanned, toned legs – Bellamy looks away before it gets dangerous and clears his throat. She jolts.

“Bellamy,” she squeaks, her eyes widening. Suddenly aware that she’s not wearing pants, she practically jumps under the covers.

“I…” Words fail him for a second as he struggles not to look at her, flushed and sweaty, but still the best goddamn thing he’s ever seen. “Are you all right?”

“Been better, but alive.” She shoots him a smile that doesn’t quite achieve dismissiveness, but he can still read her better than most, and recognizes the stiff set of her neck and the frailty in the curl of her lip even after all these years, an ill feeling nestling in his gut when he notices the redness in her eyes.

“ _Clarke_ ,” he chides, and just him saying her name causes her to drop it. Her face crumples as she exhales.

“Terrible,” she admits, ducking her head. “I just feel…warm, and in pain, everywhere. It only stops hurting if…”

Bellamy clears his throat again. “Gotcha,” he says, awkward again. “It feels better if you…?”

She catches on to his meaning. “Getting myself off doesn’t help,” she explains, looking miserable. “I’ve – I’ve already tried, twice. I think it just makes it worse. The nurses say…it’s got to be someone else.”

Bellamy tries, futilely, to stamp out the mental image of Clarke trying to masturbate the fever away. “No one’s… here to help you through it?” he asks, his voice coming out lower and rougher than he intended, and by the look on her face, she is thinking the same.

“It’s not like – there’s anyone,” she admits softly.

They stare at each other for yet another loaded silence.

“There’s me,” he blurts out before he can think better of it. The words fall between them, flat and awkward.

Her head snaps up to look at him. “I-I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that,” she whispers. “That’s just – Bellamy, no.”

Bellamy takes a few steps closer to the bed. “You’re in pain, Clarke,” he says thickly. “You need…”

She grits her teeth. “This is nothing. It’s just going to be a day. I lived through…” Here, she trails off, and with a sickening pit in his stomach he realizes she was going to say _Praimfaya_. He steps back and debates turning tail and forgetting this ever happened, but then he notices that Clarke’s hand is moving under the sheets, her hips starting to rock. Despite his best attempt to prevent it, the sight goes straight to his dick, and he grunts.

Clarke snaps to attention and halts her movements. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her eyes filling with tears. “It doesn’t really help, but it hurts more if I don’t try.”

The sight of Clarke _crying_ jumpstarts something in him, strikes a primal memory from a hundred years ago, and he steels his shoulders and goes to sit on the bed.

“Can I touch you, Clarke?” he asks. When she nods, he lifts a hand to lightly graze her cheek, thumbs away the tears that slip out, and she closes her eyes and leans into the touch. She’s too warm. “Let me help you, Clarke. Let me make you feel better.”

She opens her eyes, and her gaze is hazy. He wonders if the wine’s effects are taking over before she shakes her head and pulls away. “Echo,” she says.

“We’re done.”

“Oh.”

Another awkward silence. “Is that the only reason you don’t want my help? Is it…shit, do you not want me to…” The possibility sickens him, fills him with shame and regret. Clarke’s suffering, her decision-making must be affected, and here he is continuing to come on to her like a sleazebag. “I can leave. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not that. It could never be that.” Clarke’s hand is moving under the sheets again, and he can’t help but follow the movement. “It’s just that – I–” Her hand stills and she moans. Her back arches a little, the outline of her heavy breasts peeking through her thin shirt.

Bellamy’s fists clench in the covers; part of him longs to yank away the sheets and pound into her, give her the satisfaction she needs. “Just that?”

It’s an unbearably long time before she answers. “It’s that I don’t – I don’t deserve – not from you –”

He stops, his blood running cold. “ _What_?”

Clarke makes a sound that sounds a lot like a sniffle. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

Here he falters, resigning to watching her out of the corner of his eye. _I don’t deserve it, not from you_ , she’d said. Bellamy’s heart _aches_ , and he suddenly feels the urge to leave her alone, sort through their messes and hurts and mistakes, and hash it all out when they’re both more lucid.

But then she closes her eyes and makes another frustrated, pained noise, and he snaps.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he growls. “But Clarke, for now, you’re hurting. And I can help you.” He leans closer, taking her in his arms despite her protests. It takes a while but she stills in the hug and starts to respond, leaning up into him. He takes a deep breath, takes in the scent of sweat and pine and _Clarke_. “Let me. Please.”

She pulls away and holds his gaze. Finally, _finally,_ she nods. Bellamy leans in and she kisses him with a ferocity he wasn’t expecting. He loses himself in the push and pull of their tongues for a second before he remembers that she needs to get off, and he starts moving down her neck, ghosting over the outlines of her breasts through the shirt, nosing at her abdomen before gently spreading her legs and pulling down her underwear. She’s soaking wet, probably has been for the last few hours, and he breathes in the tangy, acrid scent, runs a gentle finger down her slit. She jolts and cries out, her body tense and reactive.

“What do you need, Clarke?” he murmurs into her thigh, his fingers circling her opening. “Tell me what you need.”

 “Please,” Clarke sobs, refusing to look at him. “Please, Bellamy. Just – just this.”

 _You can have more,_ he wants to say. _You can have it all, and I want to give it to you. I always have._ “Clarke, princess, please look at me,” he says instead, and she leans up on her elbows to do so, but her stare is wide and a little wet. “I forgave you,” he says lowly. “And I know that I fucked up, with the Flame. I hope you’ll forgive me too. But for now…” Then he inserts one finger into her, ripping a loud moan from her throat. She’s so, so wet, he doesn’t have any trouble adding another one almost right away.

Clarke reacts like a livewire, her hips bucking in time to the thrust of his fingers, and she feels so amazing around his hand that he can’t help but add a third, pounding faster and faster and taking her higher and higher until she keens and comes, her head lolling against the luxurious pillow.

“That one was a gimme,” he mutters. “Does it hurt any less?”

“A bit,” she admits, her voice higher than he’s used to. “Thank you.”

“Thank me later. I’m not done.” He places a hand on each thigh, plants a kiss to her mound. He doesn’t know if it’s the wine or Clarke, but she goes pliant, moaning and making more and more delicious noises the more he licks and nibbles at her clit. He licks into her then, nosing her clit as he fucks into her with his tongue, and her sounds get louder and louder before she crests again with a yell, collapsing back against the bed. Bellamy surges up to kiss her, has her lick herself off his tongue, and the sight, the feel, all of it is so hot he groans. In their jostling his cock — rock hard since her first orgasm — nudges against her folds, causing them both to moan.

“Let me fuck you,” he whispers, a little hazy himself; he wonders if the stimulants are somehow affecting him, too. “Please let me fuck you.”

She nods frantically and he lines himself up at her entrance before pushing in all the way to the hilt in one fluid motion. “Shit,” he mutters, his voice sounding far away. “Shit, you feel so good, Clarke.”

“ _You_ feel good, always thought you would,” she whines, the most lucid she’s been since he first kissed her, and she rocks her hips against him. “Move, Bellamy.”

And move he does.

In the sad, lonely dreams he’d tortured himself with on the Ark, he’d always thought their first time would have been slow and sweet. He would have taken his time, given her sweet, long satisfaction that the ground would never let them have otherwise. He imagined that she would have smiled up at him lovingly, beautiful and fresh in a way reserved only for him.

There’s nothing slow and sweet about this. Bellamy thrusts into her at a merciless pace and Clarke gives as good as she gets, rocking her hips upwards in time with his thrusts until there’s nothing else he can hear but their combined breathing and the slap of skin on skin. He plants a palm on her knee and bends it forward so her thigh lines up with her torso. The change in angle lets him push deeper, and Clarke gives a full-bodied groan, moving her head so he can kiss down her neck.

Bellamy bends to kiss her messily, all teeth and tongue. There’s no delicacy here, not anymore, and maybe they were never meant for the gentle and soft kisses he dreamed about, maybe they were always supposed to be brazen and rough. “You deserve this, princess,” he says, losing control over his words. “You deserve – _fuck_ , you deserve everything. This body, this heart, this brain? Fucking breaks my heart you don’t think you can get love, because I–”

He trails off, the words settling in his throat. Clarke gasps, and he takes the distraction to move from her lips, starts kissing and licking at her jaw. “I’m just sorry,” he murmurs into her ear. He doesn’t know for what – for leaving her during Praimfaya, for loving Echo, for how everything on Earth had fallen apart so quickly between them, for how _willingly_ he’s doing this now, for her. Clarke’s back arches and she cries out, coming a third time on his cock, bathing it in warm fluid. It feels so damn good Bellamy takes a deep breath and starts pistoning his hips into her, chasing his release until it finally comes and he falls apart inside her. Clarke’s fingers drag down his back at the sensation, and he wonders if unconsciously or subconsciously, she wishes to keep him close.

His hips slow until they stop. For a moment there’s only him on top of her, their foreheads touching, their mouths nearly sharing a breath. Bellamy considers kissing her again, long and slow like he wanted to do _before_. _I loved you_ , he thinks. _Maybe I still do_.

Then Clarke opens her eyes. The fog in her gaze is gone, and when she looks up at him, her expression and voice are deceptively neutral. “Bellamy?”

It’s like someone dumped a bucket of cold water on him. Bellamy jerks away, slips out of her and rolls onto his back. “Are you feeling better?” he asks, more to the ceiling than to her face.

“Much,” she says, averting her gaze. “Thank you for helping me through it, Bellamy. I’m sorry you had to – I’m just sorry.” It still sounds too clinical, too detached for comfort.

“It wasn’t a hardship,” he says, but it falls flat. Clarke sits up and tucks her knees close to her chest, turning away from him slightly.

_I don’t deserve –_

His heart breaks a second time. _How can I fix this?_ he wants to say. _How can I fix us? _

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks instead, his gut churning.

It takes her a long time to respond. Finally, she nods.

Bellamy takes a deep breath. “All right,” he says, climbing out of bed and reaching for his pants. She’s quiet as he slips his clothes on. Covered in the sheets, bathed in the warm lamplight, she makes a beautiful sight despite the unhappiness on her face, and not for the first time Bellamy’s mind goes to forbidden places – _what if, what if, what if. What if it didn’t happen like this_.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, getting up. “See you at the next meeting.”

He’s got one hand on the button to open the door when she speaks again. “Bellamy, I–”

He whirls around. Clarke’s eyes are wide, and they hold each other’s gaze for a beat too long.

“…I’ll see you,” she says faintly. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

The sight makes him smile, despite everything, and he nods, steps outside, and closes the door.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not too gr8 at writing porn, so shoot me some validation or concrit thx <3


End file.
